“Are you, too, interested in foundlings, Donna Maria?” he asked.
“Yes, very,” she replied vaguely.
“Well, will you give me one of those red roses, only one?”
The request is made with seeming disingenuousness, but she understood that the man was waiting for the reply attentively. The woman was silent, and smelled her roses.
“I will pay whatever price you like—for the foundlings,” he murmured suggestively.
“Why do you value it so?” she asked, looking at him.
“Because it is yours; because it has been in your hands, because you have put it near your face, and have placed it to your lips.”
The voice is lower and the expression more ardent. The woman had never heard the like from him before. She looked at him with melancholy curiosity, but free from anger.
“Maria, give me the rose,” and he attempted to take it gently from the bunch.
Maria drew back and looked at him, protecting her flowers.